* Lions 19, Phoenix 17: All is going well until William Clay Ford calls down a passing play for Andre Ware. Unfortunately, he is connected to Jim Arnold, who goes out and throws an interception.
* Cleveland 28, Indianapolis 14: Rumor has it the Lions are interested in Jeff George. Rumor has it William Clay Ford called Jeff Daniels by mistake.
Once upon a time, when Kirk Gibson went out socially, you locked up the women and children. He was a serious party animal, a whole frat house rolled into one reckless body.
Now Kirk Gibson goes out socially to his son’s elementary school, with the other fathers, leaning against the bulletin boards, and when the teacher asks them to write something in their children’s journals, Gibson takes the pencil and writes his name and the date and the usual stuff. Then he adds a message to his boy. The message reads, “You never know unless you try again.”
Today’s column will be A WINNER! It will be THE SURPRISE HIT OF THE FALL!
It has BLOCKBUSTER WRITTEN ALL OVER IT!
It is THE FUNNIEST COLUMN I’VE READ ALL YEA–
Sorry. You caught me practicing. I have decided to give up my current line of work, which is, well, I’m not sure, whatever it is, and go into movie reviewing.
I don’t mean the long, gracefully written reviews Pauline Kael did in the New Yorker. Or the serious criticism found in the New York Times, Boston Globe, or this newspaper.
Gatorade is out. Worms are in.
It’s true. As you read this, athletes are pouring milk on their worms.
Or spreading worms on toast.
Bagels and worms? With tomato?
Whatever. It’s just a matter of time before we’re all into the slimy little buggers, after the news this week in sports:
Worms make you run faster.
* Lions 23, Patriots 14: New England. New Coach. New Quarterback. Same mess.
* Minnesota 20, Chicago 17: Jim McMahon steps under center, looks across the line at his old Bears teammates, and says, “Hey, you never returned my albums
. . .”
I pass a man who is stark naked, except for his boxer shorts. Half his body is painted blue. Half is painted yellow. He is sitting in the parking lot, tossing a football, making a “Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!” sound, like a train, coming ’round the bend.
“Excuse me,” I say, nonchalantly.
“Pardon me,” I say.
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